


All Of Me Pressed Onto You

by wilderswans



Series: Widomauk 30 Day NSFW Challenge [6]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb has no ass 2k18, Clothed Sex, Feelings, Frottage, M/M, Molly's terrible Zemnian, Nott's probably wondering why she lets Caleb's horny bf share the tent, Oral Fixation, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Soft Widomauk, Tent Sex, dumb gross flirting, let them be tender!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 10:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15386991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilderswans/pseuds/wilderswans
Summary: Caleb cracks an eye open at the sound of hushed voices in the tent, pitched back into alertness as open tent flap allows in a wintery gust of icy air.(Day 6 of the 30 Day NSFW OTP challenge: Clothed Getting Off)





	All Of Me Pressed Onto You

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever be able to write smut for these two without getting navelgazey about their feelings [flips tarot card] nope they always gotta be slam-dunked into the feelings pit
> 
> Set not long after Read Me (Like a Book); as always, this series makes the most sense if read chronologically.   
> (Speaking of the feelings pit, the title is from Sufjan Steven's "All Of Me Wants All Of You")
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and comments if you are feeling so inclined. I appreciate it so much, and love hearing from you guys.

Caleb cracks an eye open at the sound of hushed voices in the tent, pitched back into alertness as open tent flap allows in a wintery gust of icy air. He groans, rolling from his side to his back. Molly is holding the tent open, silhouetted by the flames of the campfire behind him.

“You can go back to sleep, Caleb,” says Nott, gathering up her cloak and tattered blankets. “Jester and I have second watch.”

“Are you sure?” Caleb asks, voice still hoarse. Nott nods and reaches out to give his hand a squeeze.

“It’ll be fine,” she says. “You set the silver thread so we’ll have plenty of warning if anyone tries anything.”

“ _Ja, schatz_ ,” says Caleb. “Stay warm.”

“You too,” Nott says, directed at both him and Mollymauk on her way out of the tent. She pauses and adds under her breath, “Please be fully clothed when I come back in after watch.”

“You don’t have to worry about that one,” says Molly, ducking into the tent and setting his scimitars down to the side, close enough to be at hand but far enough that he won’t gut himself rolling over in his sleep. “It’s too fucking cold to take anything off.”

Nott slips away, and Molly reaches to tie the tent flap shut again. Caleb is caught between sleeping and waking, weary to his bones but too tense with cold to ease fully back into sleep.

“Come here,” he says to Molly, shuffling aside and making a little room for Molly in his bedroll. Then he wrinkles his nose and tries again in Common. “Come here, Mollymauk.”

Molly’s expression is teasing but not sharp when he shuffles closer. He’s taken his ridiculous coat off and in the dim light Caleb can see impressions of silvery lavender scars, of a loose white shirt stained with the dust of travel. “Do you always do that?”

“ _Was_?”

“Switch to Zemnian when you’re sleepy,” Molly says. He lies down next to Caleb, still in his boots, and drapes the coat over himself like the world’s most obnoxious blanket. Now that he’s close Caleb can smell him - campfire smoke and the chill of winter winds below the pervasive scent of incense that always seems to waft from his coat. "Not that I'm complaining, it's cute, but sometimes it'd be nice to know what you're grumbling at me."

Caleb ignores this and ignores the feeling of his cheeks heating as shuffles closer until they’re both pressed together, a single unit covered half with Caleb’s blanket and half by Molly’s coat. It is cold - desperately, achingly, ball-shrinkingly cold, which gives him plausible deniability when he leans in further still, the shivering tension in his limbs easing at the heat rolling off from Molly’s body.

“You are still unfairly warm,” he complains mildly. Molly chuckles, leaning his cheek against the top of Caleb’s head.

“Now I see why you keep me around,” he says. “You’re using me for my heating abilities, Caleb; I see right through you.”

Caleb pretends to consider this. There’s no denying he’s fully awake now, and he suspects Molly won’t be in the mood to sleep for some time yet. “You’re right, but I keep you around for other things, too,” he offers.

Molly shifts back just long enough to look at him, a quirk to his mouth and a question in his eyes. Caleb tries to smile but is certain it just looks nervous and slightly deranged, but Molly doesn’t say anything, doesn’t laugh at him. The nerves evaporate when Molly kisses one corner of his mouth, then another, before pulling him in for a proper kiss.

“I guess I’ll just have to persevere through being so ill-used,” he purrs, low and hot against Caleb’s mouth. Caleb shivers again, though this time it has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the closeness, the searing heat of Mollymauk pressed against the line of his entire body.

It is one thing to be like this with Mollymauk when they are alone, in an inn - behind closed doors, no one else but the two of them existing for hours scattered here and there. The newness of it all still thrills Caleb as much as it terrifies; sometimes he becomes so wrapped up in the notion that he stands on shaky ground that he can’t even look at Molly while the others - save for Nott - are around.

But what business is it of theirs, if he’s found himself needing the touch of Molly’s hand and the warmth of his skin faster and harder than he’d ever thought possible? What does it matter to them, if it makes him feel bold for the first time in years? Bold enough that he’d lead Molly into a bookstore with the express purpose of sucking him off? Bold enough to want?

Clenching his fingers into the fabric of Molly’s sleeves, lips yielding for Molly’s tongue, Caleb wonders if somehow Mollymauk is making him a different man by degrees. A subtle transmutation: The elements of him are fundamentally the same, but have morphed and react in ways that he himself could have never predicted.

After all, the old Caleb wouldn’t be doing this in a canvas tent in the middle of the night with their sleeping companions not twenty feet away. Even until very recently, Caleb would shy away from this contact, throw walls up between himself and longing.

Two clawed fingers trace his unshaven cheek, scraping raspy on the stubble. Against his mouth Molly murmurs, “Caleb - may I manhandle you, for just a moment?”

And oh, if that doesn’t send lighting crashing up and down his spine. Narrowly he resists the urge to blurt out any time, whenever you like, and instead says, “Uh - _ja_?” because he doesn’t know what Molly wants, but suspects it will be wonderful.

That suspicion is proved correct when Molly grips Caleb’s arms and rolls onto his back; Caleb follows the motion and ends up lying fully atop the hot length of his body. He presses his forearms onto the ground just above Molly’s shoulders for support, and looks down to find he is nose-to-nose with him.

“ _Hallo_ ,” he says, blinking. This close Molly’s smile is blindingly brilliant in the dark of the tent, and he has to close his eyes against its warmth, as if he is staring at the sun.

“ _Hallo_ ,” Molly echoes back to him, in an accent so terrible Caleb has to muffle his laughter against his sleeve.

“You are the worst,” Caleb says. Resisting the pull of a smile is painful, so he doesn’t. Even with his eyes closed, he can almost feel the intensity of Molly’s smile in return. “One day I must teach you Zemnian properly, so you no longer subject me to your terrible accent.”

Molly reaches up to tangle his fingers in Caleb’s hair. Gooseflesh erupts down Caleb’s arms and neck hen he scratches his scalp, runs his fingertips just behind his ears. “I think I know all the Zemnian terms I’ll need. _Kartoffel_. _Scheisse_. _Bier_. _Geld_.” He pauses. “Uh, _bitte_ , and you called me an _arscheloch_  that one time -”

Caleb drops his head to groan against Molly’s shoulder. “No more, I beg you, Mollymauk.”

“Darling, you haven’t even _begun_ to beg me,” Molly says. Caleb can hear the smirk in his voice, but has to pretend, pretend that it doesn’t make him shiver down to his very core. Instead, he bares his teeth and bites around the flesh of Molly’s shoulder, through his shirt.

Molly freezes, stock-still against him, and Caleb knows he’s won.

He just doesn’t know _what_ he’s won, exactly.

“I have your attention now, _ja_?” he asks, releasing Molly. From what he can see, the tent still dark but for the dim glow of the campfire through the canvas, a high flush has risen on Molly’s cheeks. Caleb sees his throat working in a swallow.

“Darling,” Molly says, low and pleased as he runs his hands down Caleb’s back from his neck, settling lightly on his hips like a question. “You always have my attention.”

In any other circumstance, with any other person, that prospect would be overwhelming: Caleb merely makes a pleased sound in his throat and returns to kissing Mollymauk, rather enjoying this new switch in position. He can feel every breath Molly takes between kisses, and when Caleb bites Molly’s lower lip, dragging his teeth across the soft flesh, he feels Molly give a full-body jolt. But those hands on his hips remain parked resolutely there, though he can feel Molly’s fingers flex, digging ever so slightly in. He releases Molly’s lip from worrying it softly between his teeth, and presses a kiss to it in apology for the rough treatment.

“You do not have to be a gentleman,” he says.

Molly’s voice is full of quiet bravado. “Have I _ever_ been a gentleman?” he says, but there’s some measure of relief in his eyes when he brings his hands down to squeeze Caleb’s ass through his trousers. Gripping Caleb’s ass, kneading the lean muscle there, Molly guides their hips together, pressed flush so he can feel him through their layers of clothing. It feels unspeakably good, despite the strain of Caleb’s own erection against the tight confines of his trousers - he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to ruin this perfect line of contact to undo clothing and fumble with belts.

Molly’s hands guide him into a long, slow rhythm of thrusts as their lips come together again. Caleb shifts so he can wind his fingers into Molly’s hair, tugging not enough to hurt but enough to smart, and is rewarded by Molly moaning against his mouth. It could be overwhelming if it were not so wonderful, the blood running so hot in Caleb’s veins he wonders how he could have ever felt cold. He grinds down against Molly’s dick and bites his own lip to muffle a noise as Molly’s hands squeeze him again, pulling him hard against him.

“Yes, darling,” Molly pants against his cheek. “Yes, just like this, come on -”

And fuck, if that doesn’t send Caleb’s keen mind into rapidfire imaginings, one after another, so vivid they take his breath away - Molly panting that against him as Caleb sinks slowly down onto his cock; Molly moaning against plush pillows in a soft bed as Caleb grips his hips and presses the head of his cock his slick hole; Molly in him and on him and yielding to his mouth, his teeth, his fingers, spurring him on with hoarse encouragements. He groans, pressing his face to the junction of Molly’s neck and shoulder, mouthing at the raised line of a scar as Molly’s hips roll against his. His skin tastes of salt and dust and underneath it is clean but almost metallic, as if scars could smell, as if the heat of Molly’s blood could be captured in a scent close to his skin.

“Molly,” he gasps, feeling his face heat, thrusting with faltering time against Molly’s hips. “Mollymauk -”

“Come on, darling, _come on_ ,” Mollymauk coaxes, and Caleb has to bite down onto his shoulder again to hold back the sharp cry rising in his throat as he shakes and comes messily in his own trousers like a bloody teenager, humping desperately against Molly’s hips as he shakes. He’s barely finished, still shaking, when he feels Molly’s grip tighten on him and then he is coming, too - Caleb can feel the race of his heart beneath his tongue, can hear the shallow hitching breaths.

He closes his eyes, worrying the line of scar tissue with his tongue as Molly releases him. Moving his hands up to rub slow and absent circles against the small of Caleb’s back beneath his shirt, he still sounds out of breath as they come down. Despite how cold it was before, the tent now feels sweltering, and Caleb blindly reaches back to tug their combined covers down to invite some cooler air in.

In these moments, Caleb feels - he is not sure what he feels, mouthing this particular scar like it’s a totem. Soon enough he knows they’ll have to clean themselves up; already he’s feeling the uncomfortable dampness seeping through the fabric of his trousers, and they’ll have to get some sleep for another early morning on the road. Belatedly, he hopes they didn’t wake anyone else up, but can’t bring himself to care terribly much when Molly makes a vague and quiet noise of happiness he can feel through his mouth.

Perhaps it is in these moments, Caleb realizes, pressed close enough to feel Molly’s heartbeat, that he is transmuted by degrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Jester has a fine-tuned "they fuckin" radar and now I'm sure She Knows. Godspeed, Caleb and Molly.  
> Thanks again for reading ♥


End file.
